


the art of scraping through

by awenswords



Series: The Magicians One-Shots [3]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Depression, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 16:38:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18286157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awenswords/pseuds/awenswords
Summary: from the prompt: the gang saves el and all is good except Q can’t stand to be touched by him/ be in a room with him without having a panic attack or reverting to the emotionless state he was in with the monster





	the art of scraping through

Quentin thought that everything would be okay again when he got Eliot back. Not good, just - okay. Bearable, for once. That maybe he’d feel something besides that awful void that was slowly consuming him from the inside out.

And it is good, at first, because Eliot looks up at him with beautiful clarity in his eyes, stumbles on deer legs and says, “Why the _fuck_ am I dressed like this?” then stumbles forwards, half collapses into Quentin’s arms, hand coming up to hold him by the back of the neck like he always did. He has a moment - one small, peaceful moment to melt into the embrace but then his hands start shaking and he can’t breathe.

The Monster - no, Eliot - Eliot steps back, looks down and plays with Quentin’s fingers and says, “I’m - I’m sorry, for whatever it did.”

Quentin can’t talk, can only hunch over as hot blood pumps in his ears and pressure rises in his forehead, shoots down his spine and spreads through his shoulder-blades. The Monster’s hands keep touching him, skimming over his chest and his neck and feeling his forehead like Eliot used to when he got sick back at the cottage. Back in their perfect bubble-universe, separate from all of this shit. The Monster is touching him and standing too fucking close and Quentin feels like the walls are closing in around him, every breath that ghosts his cheek a hot, angry blow. He tries to take deep breaths until his head spins.

Blood and dirty clothes and cheap toothpaste, Marina’s shampoo and bubblegum. Eliot never smelled like that. Eliot smelled like expensive red-wine Sangria and women’s pomade from a boutique thirty minutes off campus. Heady incense and dry-clean-only clothes.

His chest heaves under the Monster’s hand and something pleading rises in his throat as he backs up, spine hitting the edge of the kitchen island. Cold marble. Tile floor. Don’t think. Just breathe.

“What’s - what’s happening?” Eliot asks with the Monster’s voice. He sounds panicked, afraid. Quentin does’t move because he’s under attack. Frozen. “Just breathe, Q.”

Those are _Eliot_ words. _Just breathe, Q._

He can listen to Eliot.

“I’m - I’m sorry,” he mutters, gaze flicking to the floor because he can’t look at Eliot’s face, with hollow eyes and pale cheeks and patchy scruff dotting his jaw.

Julia whispers something soft and sweet and kind, and Eliot steps back. Pads to the other side of the room, quiet feet on thick carpet. She eases Quentin onto one of the bar stools, presses a glass of water into his hand.

“Can you breathe for me, Quentin?” She asks, and he latches onto her voice. Sotto voce and sure, a voice that’s brought him back from that hot red darkthoughts place, “Let’s just break the cycle, alright?”

That’s what they called it, when he was a teenager having panic attacks in the corner of the cafeteria. The cycle of darkthoughts, avalanche, snowballing down and never fucking stopping. He presses his head against the cold counter-top and breathes, shoulders shaking, chest stuttering violently.

“What was it?”

Quentin chokes on his words, “El is back, but the - the Monster. I can’t, Jules. I see him and I see the fucking Monster.”

“Okay,” Julia says, shooting a look at Eliot over her shoulder as he moves to stand up. It’s a look that screams don’t move, and don’t you dare hurt him, and Eliot retreats down the hall, head bowed. Quentin can see pain in his eyes but he can’t think about that because the cold, calm feeling is coming back, the feeling of control that he so desperately needs. So he listens to Julia as she continues, “Q? We’ll figure that out, alright.”

He nods and lunges forwards, glass of water falling to the counter and rolling, spilling water all over newspapers and books but he needs Julia, needs a hug, needs something warm and kind. She wraps her arms around him and he lets himself relax. Finally. The tightness in his chest loosens just a little. Enough for him to breathe.

* * *

 

Quentin doesn’t avoid Eliot, per se, but he is never in the same room as the other man. He knows he’s becoming more like himself, losing the Monster and turning back into Eliot, El, _baby_ , _honey_ when they were old, _darling_ in a sickly-sweet voice to gross off Teddy. _Loveofmylife_.

Eliot.

The balcony is dark and quiet when Quentin sneaks outside with a pack of cigarettes and just enough IPAs to get him buzzed but not drunk. Even after being back on Earth for so long, he still expects to see Fillorian constellations when he looks up, but this is Earth and this is New York City, with heavy smog and skyscrapers to block the view. Still, he can look up and close his eyes and breathe in the night air.

He thinks he’s alone when he starts crying, smoking with trembling hands, and it’s not panic, but it’s something dark and bottomless that’s dripping black ink in his chest.

“Q?” A soft voice murmurs. It’s so Eliot that Quentin can’t be scared. He hasn’t heard his voice in the past week, and it’s lost the childish quality of the Monster.

It’s dark enough that he can’t see Eliot, can’t even make out the strong profile of his brow and his nose. Proud and kingly. Dark enough that he can’t see the Monster either.

Quentin swallows, opens a bottle of IPA and passes it to Eliot without looking. Fixes his eyes on the horizon line and the glimmering city lights.

“Should I go?”

“No - no - please, El,” he says in a rush, closes his eyes, takes a swig, “I just - it breaks my fucking heart that you scare me so much.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t - don’t apologize. I - I love you, El, and I want to be around you, but every time I look at you I think about everything that thing did.”

Eliot shifts behind him, “Can I touch you?”

Quentin nods, tensing up when Eliot’s hand wraps gently around his wrist. He doesn’t look behind him because then he’ll see the Monster’s face. But he smells Eliot, smells nice clothes and wine and shampoo that wasn’t found in Marina’s shower. Eliot starts to say something but Quentin turns around, surges forwards and buries his face in Eliot’s chest and sobs when El’s hand comes up to cradle the base of his head. He holds Quentin like he’s made of porcelain.

“I miss us,” Eliot says, voice shaky as he strokes Quentin’s hair, “I miss Fillory.”

“Remember the raspberry bushes?” Quentin whispers wetly. He’s probably soaking Eliot’s shirt through with the weight of his tears. Deep in the green woods by their cottage, they found perfect, sweet raspberry bushes. Eliot kissed Quentin with lips that tasted like spring and he taught Teddy how to find ripe berries, how to make jam and pie and tea.

Eliot nods, chin pressing against the top of Quentin’s head, “Remember our grandchildren?”

“If I could go back - ” his voice hitches, cuts off into a sob. If he could to back he would, in a heartbeat.

“Me too, Q. Me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to the anon on tumblr who sent me a prompt for this!


End file.
